The Twin Tangents
by Havalubee
Summary: Jim Moriarty has to lie low for a few years following the Reichenbach Fall. After responding to a summoning from an old friend and mentor, Sherrinford Holmes, he takes on what might be the two hardest challenges of his criminal, and (meagerly small) personal life. How can one psychopath deal with two twin boys and another psychopath all at once?
1. Jack the Ripper

_Title: The Twin Tangents_

_Summary: Jim Moriarty has to lie low for a few years following the Reichenbach Fall. After responding to a summoning from an old friend and mentor, Sherrinford Holmes, he takes on what might be the two hardest challenges of his criminal, and (meagerly small) personal life. How can a psychopath deal with two twin boys and another psychopath all at once?_

_Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock or any of its characters. Even the storyline has taken inspiration from other famous original works like Despicable Me. The inspiration of Sherrinford Holmes and his relation with Jim Moriarty comes from the amazing forums, Sir Arthur Conan Doyle himself (bless his dead soul) and Q from Skyfall. Good writers borrow, great writers steal. _

_A/N: I don't know what I'm doing. I just had an idea for this and I'm going to see how far it can go. If you are any of my followed readers, I'm so sorry for not updating Part-Time Demigod. I got disenchanted with it for a long time, but I will finish it! I promise! It just might take a bit longer. _

_A/N 2.0: Thank you for reading and supporting this story. Follow, Favorite and Review. Press all the juicy buttons. They make me dance. And my dancing is ridiculous._

* * *

He looked around and then down at the brightly lit laptop. With a deft touch of his index finger, he slid the cursor over the word processor program and tapped twice quickly. A mass of notes, newspaper clippings and magazine articles lay around the small coffee table. A stark white earbud hung loosely in his left ear, playing Bach's famous Brandenburg Concerto No. 1 in F Major, while the other one dangled over a black plaid shirt. He took a small sip of the cheap house coffee, glanced at his notes, and shifted them until a large manila folder labeled "The Twin Tangents" rested delicately above the others. He quickly flipped through them and closed it again. It was senseless to keep his notes with him; he already knew everything by heart. But he had grown attached to the notes he had taken over the years and decided that they should stay. Just in case he forgot anything, which he never did. He turned his attention back to the screen. The blinking line waited patiently on the new document format, and he began to tap furiously on the sleek silver keyboard.

_"It was a dark and stormy night."_

A classic, if not cliché, way to start a novel, although it was completely true. In the year 2012, when the riveting storm of the Reichenbach Fall blew over, like candle smoke swept away by the winds of time, and everyone returned to their sorrowful, pedestrian lives, another storm was hastily heading south to London. It should not have been a surprising event; after all, storms were common in England. But this storm brought a sinister, melancholy atmosphere along with it, seemingly reminding the residents of 221b Baker Street of the continuity of the Fall's aftermath. Even the civilians unaffected by the Fall felt the spine-shivering sentiment from the northern gale. Mr. Burton's cat yowled at the gathering clouds, and the Olivia's sunflowers turned their royal heads away from the sky. Even Scotland Yard was in a state of uneasiness.

It was as if a hole had been forcibly cut out of each of their hearts and mercilessly abandoned to bleed freely.

Now that everyone knew that Sherlock was alive and faked his own death, one question remained: Did Jim Moriarty fake his as well? Sherlock wasn't going to divulge the details anytime soon, and Moriarty was nowhere to be seen or heard. When Scotland Yard arrived at the top of St. Bartholomew's Hospital, no body nor blood traces were found. Eyewitnesses were taken in for questioning, but none had seen anyone on the rooftops after Sherlock fell. Lestrade had scratched his head furiously over it and developed a splitting headache. He tried to reason with the possibilities, but for a man to carry dead weight off a rooftop before the authorities arrive, which was in thirteen minutes (a feat to be proud of, in Lestrade's opinion), and clean up the blood spill was not possible.

The only alternative, unfortunately, was that Jim Moriarty was still alive somewhere. Lestrade did not tell this to anyone; it was only a cock-and-bull theory he developed and expected it to go nowhere. He did not want to stir up any unwanted drama. So it was as it is. Everyone accepted the fact that Sherlock was alive and kept it at that.

He tapped three more words.

"_Jim was alone."_

And it begun.

* * *

It was a dark and stormy night. Jim was alone. His light-stepped footfalls echoed quietly between the slum walls as his pristine dress shoes tip-tapped over the dirty, uneven cobblestones. The night was young, and the face of the moon concealed itself behind the murky rain clouds. A sharp-tipped black umbrella hung unused on his wrist and swung back and forth like a pendulum's gentle sways, ominously counting down the seconds people still had to live.

His classic navy suit and matching necktie pressed tightly around his handsome figure, an advantage he used countless times against his unsuspecting female victims. His left hand fingered a gold band in his jacket pocket as he traversed down the filthy alleyway. Homeless men jeered at him from behind their newspaper blankets, and Moriarty smirked inwardly. They didn't know, of course, that he could burn them all. He could burn all of London in his own crooked reenactment of The Great Fire. That was actually a very good idea. He would save that for later, if he were to grow bored.

Jim Moriarty did not walk in the worst slums in London for leisure. The consulting criminal was there for a bigger reason altogether, a bigger reason than fulfilling a client's request or anything he had done before. He swung around the corner into the darkest and one of the only deserted alleyways in London. The homeless whisper it as one of the hideouts of the famous 1800's Jack the Ripper, and a deep curse befell it. What curse it was, Jim did not know or particularly care. All he knew was that it was one of the creepiest places in London and did not hesitate to step into the shadows of a hidden side door.

A smoky voice pierced the silence. "Midnight, on the dot. You did not disappoint me."

Jim managed a smile and walked slowly towards the voice. His eyes quickly adjusted to the pitch blackness and saw the silhouette of a tall, wiry man. He wore a casual black plaid button up and black tie under an open leather jacket. A flesh-piercing smirk flashed alongside black browline glasses as dimmed lights flickered on. His face largely resembled his youngest brother, high cheekbones and tall nose but the shape of his face not as oval. Unruly curls of chocolate brown hair swept neatly to the left. Brown eyes darted to Jim's face as he talked, not looking at him but _seeing_ through his very damned soul. It was a trait all the Holmes brothers acquired. Sherrinford Holmes, oldest of the infamous Holmes brothers and indefinitely the most intelligent and dangerous one of them all.

"Since when did I ever disappoint you, Sherry?" said Jim lightly.

Sherrinford's smirk grew. "I can recount several rather embarrassing moments…"

"Well, we're not here for that, are we?" Jim said as he tried to steer the conversation away from his past. "You haven't called in so long, I was starting to get worried. How long has it been? Seven years? And you haven't aged a day, old boy! Still look like you're thirty!"

"I'm only thirty-seven, you dolt."

"Yes, yes I know. Boring. Who cares how old we all are? We have more interesting things to do!" Jim rubbed his hands together in anticipation. "What's the lingo?"

Sherrinford looked around the ruined and blood-soaked room with a pensive look. His smirk faded until he wore a stoic mask. Jim waited patiently as the oldest Holmes brother gathered his thoughts. "Do you know where my baby brother is?"

"Sherly? Mm. No. Don't really care. Not now, that is. He'll show his face sooner or later," Jim said as he shrugged noncommittally. "I have bigger things to focus on. Big plans. Of course, you know about them. But I'm supposed to lay low right now. So… that's what we're doing, right? We're meeting in a _goddamned cursed hideout_, after all. I would definitely call that laying low."

Sherrinford's eyes narrowed slightly at the angry change in Jim's tone, but his own was one of subtle amusement, as if he shared Jim's sentiment. "Laying low is boring, isn't it?"

The consulting criminal snorted. "I don't know how you can cope with it."

"I don't."

"How— I'm not even going to ask."

"Good idea."

A deep silence ensconced the small room as the two greatest criminal masterminds of all time retreated far into their own thoughts. Eventually, Sherrinford took a seat in the bloodied armchair near the destroyed fireplace, and Jim bounced lightly on the balls of his feet with his hands stuffed in his jacket pockets. The consulting criminal chewed on the inside of his cheek as he trained his eyes on Sherrinford. The eldest Holmes brother had his eyes closed, and his hands teepeed under his chin like they always were when the mastermind was thinking. The soft plink of rain reached Jim's ears; the storm had started.

Finally, Sherrinford spoke up again. "If you're bored, I found something for you to do, but you may not like it much."

This peaked Jim's curiosity. Something Sherry knew he wouldn't like would be something worth exploring. "Is it interesting?"

"Very interesting. And… challenging." Sherrinford paused again and looked at Jim with doubtful eyes. "You will have a very high chance of failing."

"Go on," Jim implored.

"You will not like it, I assure you."

"Come on, tell me!"

"It might not be a good idea for you to do it." Sherrinford paused again and shifted his glasses with two fingers. "Definitely not a good idea. I don't know why I thought of it."

"It doesn't matter. Just tell me. I can deny or accept it." Jim started bouncing faster until he was practically rocking back and forth on his feet.

Sherrinford took a deep breath and said, "Adopt a child and become a parent."

Jim stopped bouncing. He blinked once, twice, and raised his eyebrows. "Really?"

"If you want an exceptionally hard challenge, then adopt identical twins. I heard they could be quite troublesome."

"Why do you think I would accept something like this in the first place?"

"You have at least two years before Sherlock Holmes comes back from being 'dead' and five at the very most. You are going to be very, very bored, and you won't be able to blow anything up like you used to. If Scotland Yard sees an increase of crime in London, it will be in the news, and John Watson will hear of it. He knows about you, Jim. You cannot attract any sort of attention. You are the primary and only source of the criminal going-ons in the country and if anything big happens, it will be linked back to you by John Watson and Lestrade." Sherrinford stopped and silently stared at Jim with his seeing eyes again. Jim rubbed his nose and looked up at the ceiling. The storm was coming down in a furious downpour now.

Jim frowned slightly. "But I like being alone. Children annoy me."

Sherrinford laughed. It was a very interesting laugh because it definitely did not suit him. It sounded far too lively and merry-hearted for a nefarious cyberterrorist. But then again, his handsome figure did not suit him either. And neither did Jim's. "Oh, you are so funny, Jim. You don't like being alone? Everything about you screams for attention and company. You're obsessed with my idiot baby brother and his little endeavors. You need someone to realize how wonderfully wonderful you are, which you are, by the way."

Jim cleared his throat and chose to ignore the last comment. "But why a child?"

"You can influence children in any way possible. Why don't you be creative with your child? That's what you do best, isn't it? Being creative and all."

"What could I do with a child other than set it on fire or strap bombs to it and send it to Sherlock's doorstep?"

"Oh, I don't know," Sherrinford replied sarcastically. "How about you teach him how to play piano or kick a soccer ball? Give him some of your vast resources of knowledge and teach him how to be a criminal genius like us. Do whatever you want with him. Just don't kill him. There's no fun in a dead kid."

"He can use it against me."

"Sure he can. But he won't if you make him utterly loyal to you, like you did to poor old Sebastian Moran. That's the challenge."

"How am I going to find a child like me?" demanded Jim. Sherrinford raised his eyebrows.

"They don't need to be psychopaths, dear," he said mildly. "Get a normal child. That's more difficult."

"I don't know about this. Did you say that I could deny?"

Sherrinford shrugged. "There's not much more you can do. You can join a book club, or a knitting club, or a gardening club. You can adopt a cat or something and settle down until Sherlock comes back. All the plans are already laid out and set in stone, and your criminal network is temporarily shut down. Act like a normal person and see what it's like to be the boring person instead of looking at the boring person."

"Says the psychopath to the psychopath," Jim pointed out. Sherrinford smiled, and then Jim remembered that Sherrinford hid undercover for seven years.

"It's really not that bad."

"I don't want to settle in. It makes me seem... so domesticated."

"You might die from boredom if you don't. Scratch that, you _will_ die from boredom."

"Doesn't the adoption process take a long time?"

"I can pull some strings and speed it up."

"What about the application requirements?"

"We all know you're a master at identity theft, and you can quickly get past background screenings. Don't be idiotic."

"What would happen to the child after Sherlock comes back?"

"Are you _caring_ about your future child?"

"_No!_ But what if the child is troublesome?"

"That makes it more fun. There's plenty of parenting books out there."

"But what if—"

"Oh Jim, Jim, Jim," said Sherrinford with a hint of annoyance. He waved his hand in the air dismissively, as if swatting away Jim's feeble excuses. "You've always liked trying new things. I know you." He leaned forward in his seat, causing flakes of dried blood to fall onto his jacket, which he swiped away with a hand. "You're _scared,_ that's what you are. You know perfectly well how to handle children, but you don't know how to handle yourself if you find out something new about yourself. Consider it a step into the unknown. If you need any company or help, you can always contact me."

"You should've been a stupid psychologist instead of a computer genius," muttered Jim. "Jeezus beezus."

Sherrinford sat back with a handsome grin. "I'm guessing it's a yes, then? Consider it a game. You manage until Sherlock comes back, you win. If you don't, well…"

"What happens if I lose?" Jim asked sharply. The idea of a game made it sound more appealing, and when he started playing, he did _not_ like to lose.

"I'll hack into your checking accounts and steal all your money."

Jim closed his eyes and fought the urge to facepalm. "Are you serious?"

"Of course not," Sherrinford said incredulously. "I don't need your money. Hacking into rich looneys' checking accounts provides more than enough money for me."

"So what happens if I lose?"

Sherrinford smirked. "That would just show that you aren't as mighty and capable as you thought you were."

_Checkmate._

Jim's eyes lowered as he chewed on the inside of his cheek again. Sherrinford had unknowingly stepped into personal territory. His pride was at stake. If he refused, he was telling himself that he was a coward and too afraid of failure. If he accepted and lost, he would just prove himself not as capable with manipulating his emotions and other's emotions as he thought he was. The only alternative his inflated ego would accept would be to play the game and win. Jim took a deep breath.

"Fine. I'll do it."

Sherrinford fist-pumped into the air, and Jim had to fight off a roll of his eyes at the childishness. His foot started tapping again. Sherrinford looked content, but Jim tried to fight off the nagging sense that convincing him to adopt a child was not the only reason he was called by Sherrinford after seven very long years.

"So, what do you really want?" asked Jim. "As much as I enjoy the little reunion, get to the point. You want something from me, so tell me what."

Sherrinford looked up from inspecting his fingernails with an innocent façade, but behind it Jim clearly saw madness, sweet, _sweet_ madness, spark in his eyes and set his mind ablaze. It was a look he often found himself wearing on his face, and he had gotten as used to it quickly. This was the mad face of an evil computer genius. This was the old Sherrinford Holmes, the one Jim always loved to see in action. This Sherrinford Holmes made Jim's pulse beat rapidly in anticipation.

"It's time for me to step back out into the world of the living, Jim. I'm tired of hiding."

"Doesn't Mycroft still have your number? The Secret Service still has your intel." Jim cocked his head to the side like an innocent puppy. "What are you planning, Sherry?"

A roll of thunder thundered dangerously close to their location, but neither Sherrinford nor Jim were fazed. The flickering lights burned out, leaving the cyberterrorist and consulting criminal in black light. A flash of lighting seared past the punched-out windows and illuminated Sherrinford's glasses lenses. Jim started counting down from ten.

"I want you to help me start a fire sale in London."

The roar of thunder followed immediately after.


	2. Chicken Chow Mein

_Title: The Twin Tangents_

_Summary: Jim Moriarty has to lie low for a few years following the Reichenbach Fall. After responding to a summoning from an old friend and mentor, Sherrinford Holmes, he takes on what might be the two hardest challenges of his criminal, and (meagerly small) personal life. How can a psychopath deal with two twin boys and another psychopath all at once?_

_Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock or any of its characters. I wish I did. *sob*_

_A/N: I still don't know what I'm doing, but I have a rough outline to follow (that probably means I'm not going to follow it)._

_A/N 2.0: __Thank you for reading and supporting this story. Follow, Favorite and Review. Thank you to April Darling for following and reviewing!_

* * *

Jim sat on the flat sofa with Sherrinford eagle-sprawled on the bed adjacent to him. As Jim scrolled through the adoption websites, he thought of how surreal his situation was. The two most powerful criminals in the world, undercover as Jimmy Morris and Sherrinford Hicks respectively, were living as flatmates in one of Jim's many flats (this one belonged to 'Jim from IT') and looking for children to adopt. Jim only planned it to be a convincing front as he gathered his plans together. His network was on an ever so temporary hold, and he hoped (for a while, at least) that London would be able to recover enough so that he could come stomping around it again. After all, that's why he was in undercover in the first place.

"These children are stupid. Their profiles are all boring," muttered Jim. He pulled a sickenly sweet innocent face and chimed, "'Oh, I like horses and learning. I like to ride the bicycle and draw.' Ugh. Who _would_ adopt them?"

"You'd be surprised," said Sherrinford with a cat-like yawn. "Humans like children who have common hobbies like that. Fat idiots, all of them."

Jim groaned tiredly. "They're all the same, Sherry. Why don't we just give up and accept the fact that—"

Wait.

He paused and leaned forward, eyebrows drawing together in surprise. "Sherry, you need to see this."

With a slight groan, Sherrinford rolled off the bed, walked over to Jim's sofa, and plopped down beside the consulting criminal with an undignified bounce. "Found something?"

"Jonathan and Joseph Hope," Jim whispered in mild surprise. His eyebrows raised. "They're supposed to be dead. So Sherly saved them after all." Then he added nastily, "And why am I surprised?"

Sherrinford crossed his arms and looked up at the ceiling. "Hope… Hope… Hope? You mean the children of…" He trailed off thoughtfully.

Jim nodded. "Jeff Hope. The taxi cabbie."

"He was actually pretty smart, from what I heard on John Watson's blog. But I thought the kids were supposed to receive the money Jeff got when he went on the killing spree."

"It was thwarted by Sherly, so I sent assassins to pick off the man's immediate family. They're supposed to be pretty new to the system then," said Jim. He chewed on the inside of his cheek and thought for a moment. "Six months or so at the very most. Their mom was murdered shortly after my jury trial. Somehow they got away with Sherly's help and ended up in adoption. We'll have to be careful with them. Scotland Yard's bound to have a few files on them."

Sherrinford sat back and narrowed his eyes. "By some miraculous turn of fate, you managed to find the two kids that escaped your assassins' wrath. Wonderful."

Jim cocked his head to the side at the picture of the two boys. "What a coincidence, isn't it, Sherry? We can adopt these two. Hopefully they will have the same or better IQ than their father."

"And suddenly they become interesting," the computer genius grumbled. He stood up and snatched his phone. "Fair enough. Let's get it over with."

"Registering… registering…" Jim said idly as he filled out the false information. He looked over at Sherrinford as a new page loaded. The cyberterrorist left the sofa and fell onto the bed again, eyes still glued to his phone. "What are you doing, Sherry?"

"Hacking into the lowest-tier government computers," Sherrinford said in a bored voice. "I haven't touched a good computer in such a long time, and technology security has improved so much. Being gone for seven years is like being gone for seven hundred years in the cyberworld. Fortunately, it's still not that hard to hack into. I'm a bit disappointed at the progress they're making. If I ran the technology industry, we would already have flying cars and androids."

Jim rolled his eyes and said simply, "If I ran the world, it would burn."

"Well, I'm probably going to have to get used to the smell of burnt cookies then," Sherrinford said sarcastically. Jim snorted but said nothing in reply.

"Is the Secret Service still looking for you?" he asked suddenly. Sherrinford looked up from his furious typing and smirked at Jim.

"I sent them a bogus tip that sent them combing through the entire country of Serbia. Clever, eh? They're going to take a while for that." Sherrinford grinned with a shrug and returned his attention to the small phone screen, saying, "After dealing with Mycroft and the relentless MI6 and MI5 for so long, it has almost become child's play. They don't even know who I am, only my code name. How crazy is that?"

"So is the Iceman in Serbia then?"

Sherrinford shrugged again. "He could be anywhere, but I think he's still here. My idiotic baby brother probably went undercover to look for me, but at this point? I really don't care."

"Wonderful. If the little rat's out of our hair, then we can get properly cracking," said Jim. He pressed a button and the wireless printer in the corner started spewing out the filled-in application records.

"I'm cracking before you are," said Sherrinford. He pressed a few more buttons and set the recorded date of registration six months back and scheduled an appointment the next day. "I've arranged a meeting with the foster center at ten tomorrow. Everything's set."

"Wonderful." Jim eyed at the digital clock on the laptop. The time read 7:06 pm, and Jim frowned. "We still have a few more hours left."

Sherrinford mused over the options and said, "Do you want to go out for dinner? My treat."

Jim frowned and said incredulously, "Aren't you broke?"

Sherrinford stuck his tongue out at Jim, earning himself a royally pissed face from the consulting criminal. "Hey, I'm not _completely_ out of money. I can afford a fancy diner once in a while. Kapeesh?"

Jim groaned, pinched the bridge of his nose, and grumbled, "Fine. Fine. We'll go get dinner."

"Consider it something similar to a stag night. It's our last night before the kids arrive," Sherrinford said with a mischievous grin, causing Jim to grump more.

"Don't remind me," he said with an exasperated sigh. "What are we getting? Chinese?"

Sherrinford shrugged and strutted out the common room. "Sure, why not? Chinese it is!"

He was halfway out before Jim called after him, "Put on some fancy clothes, for God's sake! I don't want to go to dinner with a half-dressed man!"

"Are you insulting my button ups? Ruuude!" Sherrinford barked back. "I don't think I have any tailored suits, though. Can I borrow one of yours?"

"_No_!" Jim said quickly. The thought of a reckless Sherrinford in _his_ precious garments was enough to torture him. "You're too tall for my clothes. Go wear one of your stupid button ups then." Sherrinford charmed a smile at him before vanishing behind the corner, and Jim grumbled to himself, "He's so contradictory. One minute he's serious and the next he's a child again. Jeezus beezus Christ."

"I heard that, you idiot," came Sherrinford's voice again, diminishing quickly as he marched up the stairs. Jim harrumphed and stared gloomily at the laptop, contemplating over the different scenarios that could go wrong in the Chinese restaurant and how to deal with them.

Jim snapped out of his thoughts as Sherrinford came back downstairs. As he walked, no, _twirled,_ back into the room, Jim noticed he was pristinely groomed and washed. He wore a wine plaid shirt and black tie, with a clean pair of black skinnies and shoes. Jim watched as he ambled to the coat rack and took off a long black coat and black fez with a purple puggaree.

"You are _not_ wearing a fez in my presence." Sherrinford gave Jim a frown that could rival a puppy's, but Jim did not fall for it. "Come on. You hair is too pretty to hide under a fez."

"Emotional manipulation," said Sherrinford. Jim smiled smugly. So the hacker did catch on to his tactics. "If I remember correctly, I taught you that one, right?"

"Stop trying to change the subject," Jim snapped. "You. Take off that fez."

Sherrinford smiled evilly and waggled his finger at Jim. "You can't make me!"

"I'll blow you up, stitch your remains back together, and blow that up too. Now take off that fez! You look extremely ridiculous!"

Sherrinford laughed but took off the fez. "I think you meant majestic."

"I meant exactly what I said."

"Not always. You use misdirection a lot. Another trick I taught you."

"Shut up," Jim grumbled. He was already dressed in a suit, so his slid the laptop off his lap and stood up, checking his pants for imaginary wrinkles. "Where are we going?"

"The Golden Pearl," replied Sherrinford. "A classic little Chinese café. Five stars on Yelp."

"Wonderful. They have good chow mein." Jim remembered the Chinese restaurant very clearly. A year or so ago, he took Molly Hooper to that place. She liked the chicken chow mien, if he remembered clearly. But of course he would remember the Golden Pearl very clearly. That's where he asked Molly to be his girlfriend, temporarily, of course. "Let's go."

"Do you…" Sherrinford paused nervously and gulped. He scratched the back of his neck and said sheepishly, "Do you have a car? I kind of lost mine seven years ago."

Jim fought the overpowering urge to groan and roll his eyes, but he said instead, "Oh, come on." Leave it to Sherrinford to forget that he had almost nothing to his name. How did he become a world-class criminal again?

"You got the directions, right?" he asked as Jim's car chirped open. It was surprisingly old, a 1959 Austin Mini, and Sherrinford whistled as he inspected the peeling red paint. "You know, if your car got any older, we would be driving a horse-drawn buggy."

"Shut up and get in the car," Jim grumbled. "Classics are great. Besides, I won this from a card game." Sherrinford smiled knowingly, but he said nothing during the car drive.

His silence gave Jim room to calm down and think again. No doubt that the computer genius was also thinking about his own matters, but what he was thinking about Jim had no idea and no interest. A Beatles CD played softly in the background as Jim carefully navigated the illuminated London streets to the small Chinese restaurant.

The Golden Pearl, surprisingly, was very empty that night, albeit being a five-starred on Yelp. _Good,_ Jim thought as Sherrinford led the way to an empty two-man table_, less disturbances are good. That's good._

"Hello," a petite Chinese waitress said. "I'm Kim, your waitress. What would you like to drink? Something special for your big night?"

Jim blinked furiously as Sherrinford laughed uproaringly, and Kim flushed and stammered, "I'm so sorry! I thought that you two were… you know." She paused awkwardly. "Together."

"We are together," Sherrinford joked, earning a death glare from Jim. "Just not in the way you think. We're business partners. Don't worry your pretty little head over it. He's a bit of a grump. We'll just have some tea."

"Tea it is then. I'll be right back." Kim disappeared quickly, as if running away from the sudden embarrassment. Sherrinford smiled charmingly after her and looked back at Jim. The consulting criminal was fuming.

"Idiot bitch. Who does she think she is, making illogical assumptions?" he muttered furiously under his breath. "I'll burn her. I'll burn them all. I'll —"

"Whoa. Whoa, there, boy." Sherrinford reached out and patted Jim's shoulder reassuringly. "Calm down. Come on. Calm down. Do you want chow mein?"

Jim just glared at Sherrinford, but he nodded imperceptibly. Sherrinford caught the gesture and continued, "They have some pretty good chow mien. Let's go with the chicken, eh?"

"Fine," Jim said sullenly, and remembered Molly. Idiot girl, but she did have a good taste in food. Her cat was hideous, though. "Chicken sounds good."

"Let's see," Sherrinford murmured, his fingers flicking expertly through the menu. "They have a full spicy cod. That sounds delightful. Their pork feet is a special too. I think I'll try the bok choy." Kim returned with a kettle and porcelain teacups, and he asked her, "What do you recommend, young lady?"

She pursed her lips and scanned the menu from behind Sherrinford's back. A newer waitress, Jim noted, if she still had to look at the menu to make recommendations. "I would try the famous Peking Duck or the DeZhou Braised Chicken."

"Awesome," Sherrinford said as Kim waited patiently for their verdict. "What do you want, Jim?

"Whichever sounds more delicious," Jim replied listlessly. "I don't care."

"Hm…" Sherrinford squinted and turned his menu upside down, trying to decipher the maze of Chinese characters. "Braised Chicken is calling my name. Alright," he said with finality. "We'll have two small plates of chicken chow mein, bok choy and DeZhou Braised Chicken. That's it."

Kim hurriedly scribbled down the dishes and smiled at the two (very dangerous) men. "Your food will be with you soon!" she promised, and ambled away to serve the other tables. Sherrinford watched her go with a grateful smile.

"You know, after living for seven years in hiding, it's nice to be back somewhere so familiar," he commented idly.

"You still haven't even told me what you've done in those seven years."

"You learn a lot in seven years," Sherrinford shrugged lazily. He was avoiding the question.

Odd.

A crash and scream behind him startled Sherrinford out of his seat, his natural reflexes jarring him out of his seat and facing toward the source of the commotion. A middle-aged man slumped sideways out of his seat and onto the floor, pulling along with it: the table cloth, the plates, and the tea kettle and teacups. The food spilled over his trousers and jumper, and the tea tipped over and stained the red carpet brown.

His other tablemate jumped up from her own chair to fall beside the fallen man. The blonde, short-haired woman shook the man's shoulders furiously, shouting, "Andrew! Andrew, are you okay? Andrew!"

"Oh my God, someone call the ambulance!" Someone else shouted. The whole restaurant exploded into a fury of panic. People started to pull out their phones to dial the ambulance. But before anyone could ring through, Sherrinford called out in a demanding voice:

"Everyone stop and _shut the hell up_!"

A hushed silence fell upon the entire restaurant as Sherrinford stepped forward, pushed the lady out of the way, and kneeled down next to the man. The restaurant watched fearfully as Sherrinford used a napkin to check the man's pulse.

"Dead," he confirmed. He cast a quickly glance at Jim, and when Jim didn't react, he continued. "Murdered."

"Oh, shit," a man near Jim said with a sharp intake of air.

_Shut up,_ he thought, _Things like this happen every day._

The woman next to Sherrinford said in a serious voice, "We should call the police."

"No," replied Sherrinford quickly, "don't call anyone. Not yet. You two." He pointed to the two Chinese waiters, Kim and another man Jim didn't recognize, "Secure the area and don't let anyone pass." He gave them both a look that made them scuttle to their stations.

Jim watched with mild interest as Sherrinford stood up slowly, shrugged off his black coat and put it gingerly on a clean chair. "At this point, everyone is a suspect until we narrow things down. Return to your seats and sit where you were when the incident occurred."

"Why should we listen to you?" A bratty teenager asked defiantly. "You're a suspect if we follow your logic. How do we know you're not the killer? Are you a detective?"

If Sherrinford's eyes could burn through flesh, the boy would've died then and there. "It's true that I am a suspect but if you want to catch the killer, you better listen to me. I'm no Sherlock Holmes, but I know what I'm doing. Now get back in your seat!"

"Okay, fine," the boy muttered. He walked off with his hands in his pockets, muttering, "Old geezer. Jeez." The other suspects murmured to each other before returning to their respective seats.

Sherrinford rolled his eyes before scanning the body, keeping his hands covered with the napkin he was holding. The "The middle-aged man's name is Andrew Grant, and he's in excellent physical shape. He has two daughters whom he hasn't seen in two years, and his occupation is very busy and usually overseas. He travels often and to places like India and Colombia. He—" Sherrinford broke off suddenly and glanced at Jim. "Can you come here for a minute?"

"What is it?" Jim asked as he walked over to where Sherrinford was kneeling. In response, the cyberterrorist pointed to the dead man. "Look at him and tell me what his job is."

Jim's eyebrows furrowed in confusion, but he said, "That's easy. He's— Oh."

"Yeah," Sherrinford said awkwardly.

Jim dropped the volume into a whisper. "We need to nab the killer and get out of here."

Sherrinford nodded. "He was killed by potassium cyanide. If I had proper testing materials, I could find out exactly where the poison was. You can tell by the almond scent on his lips, and how they turned blue from deoxidization. He was poisoned by ingestion. Which means the murderer could have been a chef, waiter, his tablemate or anyone that came in contact with him or his food."

"So that would narrow off the regular customers," concluded Jim. "There's," he quickly performed a head count, "seven people left. The two chefs, waiters, and the tablemate."

The woman Sherrinford pushed aside said incredulously, "Are you serious? I wouldn't kill him! I barely even know him!"

_Wait, what?_

Sherrinford caught onto her words as well, and he said quickly, "Why would you go to dinner with a man you hardly know? Obviously not for a date, since he's married already."

She hesitated for a second before saying smoothly, "We're new coworkers. I just wanted to get to know him."

Sherrinford's narrowed eyes told Jim that he knew she was lying. "And what do you work as?"

"We're archeologists."

Jim leaned in close to Sherrinford and whispered, "That is _not_ what we deduced. Definitely not an archeologist. Far too interesting for an archeologist. And I don't recognize her. She's not from my network."

"For once in my life, I'm absolutely flabbergasted," Sherrinford replied sarcastically. "If they aren't from your network, who are they?"

Jim didn't respond, and Sherrinford flashed him a cheeky smile.

"Can't accept the fact that you don't know something, can you?"

"Shut up before I rip your larynx out. I'm thinking."

Sherrinford just tutted and examined at the body. His calculating eyes dashed across the floor to the fallen teacups. "Neither the food nor tea was tampered with."

"Wait," Jim said suddenly, and both the lady and Sherrinford looked at him. "Wait a second. Potassium cyanide closes the trachea, which makes it difficult to breathe. He should've choked for a few moments before he died." He addressed the woman next. "Did you notice any unusual signs in his last moments?"

"No…" the lady said thoughtfully. "But he did complain of mild headaches."

"That makes sense," Jim said. He pointed at the victim's skin. "It couldn't have been potassium cyanide but something similar to it that would've caused some of the same symptoms. If it was potassium cyanide, then why is he so pale?"

"Oh my God, Jim, you can't just ask people why they're white," Sherrinford said with an immature snicker and fist pumped into the air when Jim shot him a murderous look. "Nailed it."

The woman looked at Sherrinford oddly and said, "Did you just quote Mean Girls?"

Sherrinford just grinned at her. "There's always time to quote Mean Girls. And besides, it was the perfect opportunity."

Jim tried to plow through their conversation by probing the man with his gloves. _This is an experimental poison, only developed last year. No one could've gotten their hands on it unless they were a… Oh. Interesting._

"Sherrinford," Jim said again, trying his best to ignore his partner's stupid comments. "Is the waitress here? Kim?"

Sherrinford shrugged, shaking his head. "No, she's guarding the rear door."

The consulting criminal cursed under his breath and said, "She could've gotten away already. She's the murderer."

"A waste of a good meal, but at least I don't have to pay. Ah ha. And off we dash," Sherrinford said merrily. He grabbed his coat and waved at the staring audience. "Ta-ta. See you never!"

When they were out of sight, they were suddenly joined by the woman. "Hold on a minute," she said, and both Sherrinford and Jim stopped to stare at her. She pulled on her jacket and glanced back at the two men. "What?"

"You're not going," Jim said flatly, and the woman snorted.

"Funny, I don't remember asking to come. Now, are we wasting time or what?" She said briskly, sweeping past the dumbfounded duo. As they traversed down the dingy hallway, she said, "I want to strangle the bitch that killed my partner."

Jim whistled lowly while Sherrinford said matter-of-factly, "Ooh. Cat fight. Meow."

"Shut up."

"Yes, shut up, Sherry," agreed Jim. They were only letting her go because they both knew that she wouldn't hinder them. He paused and examined the door. "Definitely gone. Predictable. But where did she go?"

When they exited the Chinese restaurant, the sun had set already, and a cold chill descended upon them. Sherrinford shoved his ungloved hands into his coat pockets and glanced at the pavement. "She's headed for the city. Definitely not a waitress, then."

"So who is she?" Jim mused aloud.

The woman just shrugged.

"So, little lady, want to tell us why the CIA's here in London? Special mission?" Jim said conversationally as he watched Sherrinford wave down a cab.

He made a mental note to remember the woman's reaction.


End file.
